Your hound sees you coming with light in your hand. He gives the first bawl as you walk up to him. The hair on the back of your neck stands up. It is 11:00. Most people are in bed. But you are wide awake. Sleep has no power over you. Not yet. you hook the leash up to your hound and he pulls you to the truck. He jumps in and you close the door on the dog box. He wants to run bad. You drive to where you are hunting and let him go. The night music you have waited all day to hear strikes it's first note and the hair stands on end again. You wait and listen. you know it is almost over, you can tell in the hounds voice. And then, it seems, as soon as it started it is over. You run through the woods like a young boy, running for the first time. you run up to the tree and your best buddy gives you an enchore chorus up to the ringtailed bandit. you watch him standing tall and proud in the moonlight. you praise him and he looks at you. there is a twinkle in his eye and you swear he is smiling at you.

It never gets old this thing we call coonhunting. It runs in our blood. It is in our soul. When you are not in the woods it is all you can think about. And you feel at home and warm when you are there. The memories you make with your best pal at your side will never leave you. The bond will never be broken. And you will never forget it.